Good Soldiers
by AndAnotherOneBitesTheDust
Summary: They're gone. They're gone... and there's so much he left *unsaid*. There's so much he *regrets*. Jason's in a bad place after Dick falls at the hands of Two-Face, when Damian falls to Hush, and when Tim's left in critical condition after a run-in with a certain clown with a bird obsession. He's... struggling, but this time he's as alone in life as he was in death.


A/N: I'm... I'm just gonna say sorry for this.

Just...

Sorry.

Review, please.

 **Recommended Song** **:** Let You Down, by NF

 **WARNING(S):** Self-Harm, Possible Character Death, Major Character Deaths

* * *

 **Good Soldiers**

 _"Pain is when you're slowly dying on the inside and you're way too weak to speak about it so you keep silent and suffer, alone."—NOFACEWRITES_

* * *

Jason's... Not, okay. Most _definitely_ not.

He sits with his legs dangling off the front of the Wayne Enterprises building. His guns are in his holsters, his favorite blade is in his jacket, and a smaller, nondescript, blade sits in his right hand.

The helmet lies beside him, shards surrounding it and pieces dangling from the stable parts of the helmet.

Who broke it? Jason's not sure what the guy's name is, but he runs around dressed like a bat.

Hm.

Why did said guy break it? It...

An argument.

Jason yelled at the Bat, the Bat yelled something back, Jason shouted at the Bat, and the Bat decided to use Jason as a punching bag.

Oh. Jason forgot to mention. Demon Brat's recently died.

And Golden Boy.

And almost Replacement.

(They're still not sure if the kid'll live)

Jason had been yelling at the Bat about it being _his_ fault for dragging children into his war on Gotham's criminals. For him not having cared about his soldiers enough to avenge them and take out the same low-lives who'd sent them to early graves. For him not respecting their lives enough to be _Bruce Wayne_ for _one, single,_ hour to grieve their deaths.

(They'd had this same argument two days ago)

(This time Jason let himself take hits instead of avoid them, and never threw any of his own. Like he's been doing on the streets the past week)

If one thought about it enough, one would realize that the reason Jason allowed himself to beaten bloody and broken was because the black sheep is _punishing,_ himself for everything he'd ever done to his brothers (because even if he refused to acknowledge them as brothers as Jason Todd, as Red Hood they'd been brothers in arms), and for everything he'd said, _hadn't_ said, and _hadn't_ done.

For that same reason, Jason's been...

Well. Doing this.

Jason glanced down at his arm. Scars crossed the skin until his palm and, even then, scars crisscrossed the skin.

Those aren't the scars he's paying attention to, though.

It's the ones that still aren't completely scars, that he cares about.

It's the ones that reveal his self-inflicted punishment that he cares about.

Jason sighs, looking back out at the Gotham skyline. Quite the view, he has to admit to himself.

Well, it'd be quite the view if blood would stop dripping from his hair every few seconds. That part's kinda annoying.

Acidic green eyes close as the self-proclaimed failure lowered his head and gripped the small blade harder. Acidic green eyes stayed closed as the self-proclaimed failure moved his right hand over to his left forearm and held the blade against the skin there. Teeth gritted as the recently-turned twenty-four-year-old dragged the blade down in horizontal movements.

The pain, normally, would be manageable, but Jason knew his limitations. Jason didn't want the pain to be tolerable, so he'd "borrowed" some poison from Jade Nguyen—Cheshire. The pain is excruciating as it burns the vulnerable flesh.

Jason does it again.

And again, and again, and again, and again, until his arm is numb and his head is foggy from blood-loss.

"Little Wing?"

Jason freezes.

(He's hallucinating now, right?)

"Todd."

He's gotta be hallucinating.

"Jason."

Definitely hallucinating.

Opening his eyes, Jason lifts his head to look out at Gotham once again.

When he speaks, the emptiness of his voice doesn't surprise him.

It's what he says that surprises him.

"Have you ever felt like... Like you're living a circus? No offense, Dick."

He hears shuffling and, out of the corners of his eyes, Jason sees Dick, Tim, and Damian sit down beside him on both sides. "Little Wing, what do you mean?"

Jason shrugs. His lips quirk up. "My life? It feels like I'm living a circus, there to jump through hoops for everyone to watch on and be entertained. Feels like I'm pushed to my breaking point again, and again, just for others to observe."

" _Tt._ Todd." Damian's voice is soft. Why? "That is a ridiulous notion. Why would you hold one such as that?"

Again, Jason shrugs. "D'nno." Blood is dripping from his head faster now and his forearm isn't faring much better.

(The blood refuses to clot)

(Jason's been diagnosed a hemophiliac about... two months ago. Guess some things changed with the poison factoring in)

"I mean, I liv'd shit, I died, came back rab'd, and liv' outcast'd now. I'm as alone in life as I was 'n death. Tell me that doesn't sound like a bad joke."

(He doesn't really expect his hallucinations to answer)

It's Tim who speaks when Damian fails to respond. "Jason... This isn't right. You shouldn't be doing this to yourself."

Jason snorts. "'S funny hearin' that from _you_ Timbo."

"Why?"

Jason's eyes close. "'Cause. F'it hadn't been for me, you w'ldn't have felt as much f'an outcast s'I am. I ruin'd your view f'me. I get that." Lower, he said, "M'sorry."

Tim went silent.

"Little Wing. We don't want you to do this to yourself."

"Live, Todd."

"Live for us, Jason."

Three voices said the same thing at the same time. "Live for us."

Jason opened his eyes and a tear slid down his cheek, past his domino. "'Member that stup'd movie we saw? Th' one with th' maze?" He watched the blood flow from his arm and drip from the crimson-stained, previously white, strands of hair dangling before his eyes.

Damian snorted. "The Maze Runner?"

"Yeah, th't one. S'what my life feels like when s'not a circus."

Dick raised a brow. "Your life feels like a bunch of teenage hormonal boys trapped in a maze with people watching them like crazy pedophiliac stalkers?"

Jason exhaled a laugh. His chest hurts too much for an actual one.

(That's probably because of the crushing blow to the ribs he'd taken tonight

(And the night before))

"Kinda. Feels like m'a Runner. Like I run down th' same corridors, every day. Th' maze may change, but, n'th' end, s'just th' same corridors, th' same dead-ends—th' same thing over, an' over, an' over again.

"Only diff'rence is th' monsters. Mine are out all times f'the day. Th' monsters're my demons. E'ry thing I've done wrong n'my life—live _s._

"The same run, the same walls, the same memories.

"The same life.

"Over, and over, and over again.

"The same run, the same walls, the same memories.

"Over, and over, and over again.

"The same life."

Jason lifted his eyes to the now-blurry skyline again, squinting.

"M'sorry," he whispered to the three figures that are mere representations of his brothers.

(His real brothers are dead)

"I can't live for you, when I don' feel alive. I can't live for you, when all I want is to die."

More tears flowed past his domino to drip from his chin.

"I can't fight th' tide f'life 'nymore. M'not strong enough. M'not strong enough, an' you guys ar'n't here t'help 'nymore."

The hallucinations slipped away in the wind and Jason closed his eyes again.

Slumping down to the gravel-topped roof of the building, Jason curled up tightly.

Alone in death, as he was in life.

* * *

 _"I'm sorry that I let you down,_

 _Oh, I let you down._

 _I'm sorry._

 _I'm so sorry, now._

 _I'm sorry._

 _That I let you down."_


End file.
